


Don't Worry, Baby (The Beach Boys Said So)

by ThatGirlSix



Series: He Is Glad, They Are His Own [2]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotherhood, Family, Gen, Warning: Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3894661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlSix/pseuds/ThatGirlSix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no handbook for how to be a son in the military. No handbook for how to be a brother. No one can tell you how to leave it all or how to stay behind. All you have is what you hope is an "I got this" smile. And maybe Bugs Bunny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Worry, Baby (The Beach Boys Said So)

**Author's Note:**

> _Thunderbirds_ is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their team(s). Go worship at the altar to their brilliance. I hear a rolled up dollar bill and some tequila work wonders. This story is rated **T** for strong language, although not nearly as bad as I usually get; **Gen** because I don't write much else; and that's about it for warnings. It fits in the same universe as my _He Is, They Are_ , but this one can be read as non-film if you so wish.
> 
> As always, thank you for your time, even if you're shy like me and don't comment much. Your time alone is appreciated. 
> 
> \-- Six

 

Scott was used to it. Okay, maybe not used to it, but he knew what to expect now. He'd been on the kid side, the inside, and, god help him, even the big brother side. Never once, except maybe when he was too young to speak, did he do it without a confident, _I got this_ smile on his face. _Never let them see you cry, kid_ , and all that, right? It's what his family needed, and Scott was nothing if not a pleaser.

 

Someone was always watching. Whether because the little ones needed his example to follow or the press was watching or because he just couldn't give up his privacy in that way, he would never let them see him cry.

 

Relegated to the dusty, spider web haven of a corner shelf in his room, Scott's Bugs Bunny stuffed toy sat and stared at him, always alert and watching for that _What's up, Doc?_ moment. The felt teeth were long gone, a cracked brown blob of glue standing in for them, hanging guiltily for not doing its job and clutching hard enough to the teeth. The seam in the left arm had popped and released the inner fluff from wrist to elbow, but the arm hung limply intact. The white stomach was nearly as gray as the rest of Bugs's body from age, but still, everything else was there, even though the toy was only a day younger than Scott. Everything, including every secret tear Scott shed those first few years, but that was between Scott and his wascawwy wabbit.

 

Even now, Bugs was damn impressive for his age. He'd seen just as much as Scott. Poor bastard.

 

Because Scott became John's big brother. And then Virgil's. He'd still talked to Bugs now and then, and Bugs always listened from his honored place on the bed, even if he wasn't in the direct circle of conversation anymore. When he was old enough to understand what was going on, John cried a lot at first before he realized he had Scott's example to follow with another little Tracy on the way. Scott needed help with Virgil, John decided. The three of them had to stick together, and Tracy Four would need them. Bugs, somehow in Scott's lap, had nodded and agreed.

 

So when Virgil couldn't sleep without them, Scott unilaterally (not that he knew unilateral or what it meant at all of seven years old) hauled himself, John, and Bugs into Virgil's room. He figured out how to slide his mattress off the box spring, flip it onto its side, and push it around the door frame, two doors down the hall, and around Virgil's door. He knocked two picture frames off the wall, which cracked the glass in one of them, but when Mom found it and asked what was going on, he'd stepped forward without hesitation on exertion-wobbly legs.

 

"Daddy's leaving tomorrow. Virgil needs me."

 

He'd said it with Bugs held in front of him like a shield, but he didn't cry.

 

Mom had smiled, banged through the awkwardness of carrying the metal frame down the hall, and wheel-checked another frame off the wall herself. She didn't cry either. Her son being the best big brother he could be was the most normal thing in the world. What was there to cry about? A few holes in the walls? Please. Dad had put (more than) a few in the plaster with his temper himself. (That time he stubbed his toe and blamed the wall was Mom's favorite to tell as the example of how it always got better.) These were just more holes on the list. She was a wiz with a putty knife and spackle.

 

Scott kind of loved Mom for only asking him to fill in the nail holes and gouges in the wall when she did her own thing and painted the house again. This time they were definitely going with a semigloss, just in case, now that Virgil had discovered crayons but not necessarily paper. Her request didn't stop any of the boys from helping pick out paint colors or shlepping their stuff from one bedroom to another while she painted and redecorated in themes each of their rooms. The room she shared with Dad was the last one she did in the whole house (yes, the bathrooms, powder rooms, basement, even the laundry room got a fresh coat). She said she didn't like what the smell of paint did to her bedding. She liked that the pillow smelled like Dad.

 

Bugs slept on her bed that night.

 

When Scott himself left for his first combat tour, Dad had been the one to do their version of normal, which was weird in and of itself. It wasn't like when Scott left for college or basic training, how those events had been seen as the next big adventure. No tears but happy ones because those times were good things. Proud things. Nothing to be afraid of things. This time, it was different. Because this time, Scott was the one who might not come home, whether adventure was had or not. They didn't think about it that way, never about the possibilities because that was simply bad luck, but yeah, it was there. It breathed in the spaces between every conversation in the days leading up, even when they tried to just do the day to day. Even something as simple as a Target request for shampoo or soap was so loaded it hurt.

 

The night before the day he left, Dad was in Scott's room waiting for him to finish up reading to Alan (and Gordon, who had an Alan-shaped barnacle stuck to his side these days). He waited for the click of the door catching home before he put Scott's old bunny down and met Scott in the eye. "How bad was it?"

 

Scott shrugged. There'd been more tears than he'd been ready for, but those were between the three of them. Dad didn't need to know about those. He didn't need to know about Virgil's little confession that morning during their walk at the park or John's steel bravery through all of it, either.

 

But Dad saw through it right away. Of course he did. His grin said he wanted to keep it light, but some things just needed to be said — lightly. "You're in a different role this time, kiddo. This time, you have to take the looks and not say anything. It isn't about what you need this time. It's what they need."

 

"Alan doesn't — "

 

"He knows more than you think he does. We made that mistake with you a lot, I think, thinking we could just tell you this would all be okay and not to worry. You were a sneaky little thing and heard things we didn't realize you were around for. You repeated back to me something I said to my own dad on the phone once. I had no idea you were there, but … My dad never handled separations very well, and it started to come through to you. You could tell we were in a mood. Honestly, I don't know who was worse, you or the dog."

 

Scott laughed and sat down next to his dad, hip to hip, oddly timid shoulder to big brass, world-conquering shoulder, and tried to not feel the weight of being a Tracy or of plain old family history. That part didn't go so well.

 

Dad brushed their shoulders together. "What's on your mind?"

 

"How did you do it? You never looked scared or sad, not that I ever remember. How did you walk out the door with a smile on your face every single time?"

 

"Hell if I know." Dad scratched at his eyebrow with his thumbnail like maybe the secret was locked in his head somehow. He didn't say anything for a while.

 

Scott stared at his folded hands in his lap. Quietly, pleading for any kind of guidance, he said, "You did, though."

 

"Maybe. I don't know. Your mom, though, she was amazing at this. Don't tell her I said that, though. She doesn't like it when I tell her I can't do anything without her. But she could. She handled everybody and everything, even when you kids got wacky on her. I didn't have to see that part, and to tell the truth, I'm glad I didn't. You boys give me enough gray as it is. But your mom, man, nobody messed with her just because I wasn't around, that's for damn sure. That woman was a force of nature."

 

Scott pointedly glanced up at the ceiling, the sky, and the stars beyond. _Ya hear that, Mom?_

 

"I said don't tell her." With that, Dad slapped his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. "Hang in there, kiddo. And as much as it sucks, try to remember this isn't about you."

 

There were snorts, and then there were _Are you kidding me with this shit?_ blasts out the back of your throat that actually kinda hurt. But Dad crossed his arms over his chest, raised his eyebrows, and waited. So there was a test in there somewhere then.

 

Scott picked up that toy and lasered his eyes through the back of its head. _C'mon, Bugs, you're supposed to have all the answers, dude._ He thought about what Dad said, how it wasn't about him, and filtered through various memories of having been on the kid side of things. He was still getting used to that, the whole him being sat at the adults' table, even though everything in his heart tugged him back toward the kids' table every time. That's where his boys were. Damn physiology. He just _had_ to actually have birthdays every year. But the extra inches, both up and across, dictated he had to at least try to act his age, get a job, do his own laundry, and all the things normal people did when they grew up. But he hadn't been there all that long. He should know their side better than Dad's right now.

 

Should. But maybe … Maybe this time, for once, he didn't want to be on their side. Maybe just this once he'd like to not be worrying and scared and feeling completely without control over even the smallest aspects of his life. Maybe this time he didn't want to be bogged down with all the W _hat happens if Dad doesn't come home?_ and W _ho's going to rub Gordon's head to put him to sleep after stories tonight?_ or _Now that Dad's not here, who's going to walk the dog at 0400 because I sure as hell don't wanna get up that early_. Maybe this time it would be nice to not know what the kids were going through. Just focus on his big boy job so he could come home and get back to normal.

 

But it didn't work that way, did it? Not for Dad. Not for him.

 

Because yeah, his brothers didn't only have Dad to worry about anymore. Now they were going to wonder if the next phone call was coming to say Scott was in trouble. Maybe he crashed during a training run. Or he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when a mortar attack hit. Or he was plain old dumb and ripped off his finger on a hot trigger during a training thing (he'd heard horror stories from Baker and her buddies).

 

That's when Scott realized how ugly this really was. It didn't matter how many times he'd done this; it wasn't his job this time. No matter how many internal checklists he had for how to handle this, checklists he'd expertly watched his mother maneuver through time and again, he'd forgotten that he wouldn't be here to do that this time.

 

"John is your ally," he started to tell Dad. Someone needed to know. "He'll be your best listener, and he'll be able to help you with the kids. Virgil will be the only one who will get Gordon to eat his vegetables, mostly because he hates them and figures he'll blackmail everybody else if he has to. He'll do all the reading at bedtime, if you let him, but you have to put him on a timer or he'll fall asleep in their rooms. Alan will try to sleep with you every night he doesn't finagle Gordon into doing. Let him, at least for a while. Gordon will probably try to follow him because he figures it's the only time he gets to big brother anybody — which he'll tell you he hates doing, but he needs it right now, too. He'll let you put him back to bed once Alan's asleep and won't wake up after that."

 

"Scott — "

 

"No, Dad, you need to know this. Virgil stays with Gordon at the pool until after practice, but remind him he has to bring a hat starting in two weeks when they move back to the outdoor pools. He burns really easy. So does John, but he never forgets. Once everything starts up again this fall, Gordon's on his own. John picks Alan up from school on Tuesdays and Wednesdays because he has that math thing, but once he leaves for school, you're gonna need someone to stay with Alan until Virgil gets home. John'll forget to do his own shopping before he leaves for school, but you have to make sure he — "

 

"Hey, kiddo, relax." Dad was across the room in barely two long strides, his hands already reaching for Scott's trembling biceps. He shook Scott a bit like he would a rubber doll, trying to flap the tension out through too-stiff fingers and toes. Scott tried to open his mouth to keep going, all too afraid that if he didn't get it all out he'd never be okay, but Dad shook his head, held his gaze, and waited for some sign Scott had heard him. "John, Virgil, and I have already been through all this. We've got schedules and everything covered. I wasn't talking about this stuff anyway."

 

"Huh?"

 

"I meant what they're going to say. That's what's not about you. Don't worry so much about here. We'll manage. It'll suck, but we'll manage. What they're thinking about will be their own fears, and they won't always realize that they're putting them on you. If, god forbid, something goes wrong over there, it won't be your fault for leaving any more than it will be their fault for worrying about it and jinxing you. It doesn't change that they're scared, only that they don't know exactly how to tell you they're scared without making it harder for you. It's awkward, but you breathe through it. Everyone will find a rhythm. It will be okay. Really."

 

Heavy and slow, Scott breathed out until he knew he'd have enough room in his lungs to suck Dad's words back in. He chewed on them, gnawing every last syllable until none of it felt so tough. "Okay. So what did you do?"

 

"I didn't worry," Dad said, all _It's good advice so you damn well better take it._ He clapped his hands on Scott's biceps, this time probably just a little too hard, but hey, what's the fun of these little moments if you can't make sure you bring the point home in every way possible, right? Scott had always felt Dad's brotherhood instincts were wasted on being an only child. But then he smiled, and Scott was thrown into every big and tiny Dad moment he'd ever had with the man. Graduations galore and just sitting on the back of Grandpa's palomino that one afternoon the first spring after Mom just topping off the list.

 

"That easy, huh?"

 

"Well, yeah. I had you."

 

He'd done his best to take all that advice in the next days, which, yeah, were so very awkward and painful and pretty much sucked moldy eggs. By the time he'd landed in country, one phone call told him things had settled out somewhat, even if Alan was refusing to fall into bed until someone pretty much knocked him out first. Virgil had him outside during the call, running Alan around the house as many times as he could so that maybe, just maybe, there might be sleep. He planned to use Mom's lavender oil trick in the bathwater, too. Scott thought it all sounded awesome.

 

Oh, and Alan had kidnapped (wascawwy wabbit-napped?) Bugs. Brat.

 

Going back to work after his post-clusterfuck recovery two years later had been a little more difficult. He wasn't sure which one of them was more clingy, himself or Virgil or Alan. He and Virgil had found a new rhythm in those recovery days, becoming even closer than they'd ever been. John had laughed about it, saying it was like they'd untied some psychic cord in their brains. Not that John was in any way insecure in his place in Scott's heart, but yeah, he and Virgil had found a new respect for each other as adults that Gordon and Alan couldn't be part of just yet. Looking back on it, those days had probably secured everything about who the eldest three would become in their IR roles. As much as it had hurt to leave them, Scott couldn't regret them either.

 

But Alan, holy hell, he'd been afraid to let Scott leave his sight. Like he might actually internally combust if his fear burned any hotter. To be honest, Scott wasn't sure who would lose it first, himself or Alan.

 

Saying goodbye to Alan that time was probably the only time Scott was grateful the press got wind of his departure and met the entire Tracy clan at the airport. Whoever leaked the information would be busted down to dirt-licking peon and chaptered out, to be sure, but at least the reporters and their nosy questions kept Alan from chasing him down the tarmac. It wasn't he like the others could hold him back, not that time, not even Dad. Instead, Scott had been able to calmly wave back to a bravely clustered family while Dad held them all around the shoulders and nodded at him, protecting them once again from being _Baked Goods-_ ed or worse.

 

He borrowed Dad's wave on that one, the one from the trip to the moon that had only a fifty-fifty chance of success. If the last time they saw him (for real this time) was now, him waving and walking away, it was going to be with the biggest fucking smile he'd ever managed. Alan was going to remember him winking right at him.

 

Hang in there, little brother. We got this.

 

Of course, Scott lied like the devil himself when he went through four airsick bags as the transport took off. Yep, he was totally airsick. It was his first time in the air after the whole him being downed, hostaged, and all that shitstorm. He'd be fine once they were over the ocean. Terrorist cells can't RPG you from four hundred miles off the coast.

 

He didn't really give a flying fuck if anyone around him believed that one as long as they gave him enough room to breathe. And maybe an Altoid. A tin of those would be real nice.

 

That was the time Scott promised himself that once he was out, once he was on the island and doing Dad's work, he'd never put his brothers in this position again. It wasn't worth the agony.

 

It never occurred to him that it would feel like this the first time they chauffeured John up to Thunderbird Five. Leaving his brother there, having the strength to walk away through the airlock and hearing it bang shut when 'Three separated, it left Scott weak in ways he never could've imagined. Maybe it was the nostalgic rush in Dad's eyes, but then all Scott could think of was the times Mom took calls about Dad being hurt up there in space without any way for her to get to him. Seeing how sick she'd looked, even while smiling and telling Scott how Dad was too dumb to hurt anything important.

 

But Dad had never been alone whenever it happened. He'd had coworkers, friends, and brothers-in-arms who could fix him up and keep his insides on the inside when they tried to get out. He had more than enough surrogate sisters to patch up that cast-iron head of his when he cracked it wide open more than once. John, on the other hand, would be completely alone. John, whose head was far from cast-iron. John, whose body would be expected to take on far more than any of the others' with the pressures of artificial gravity on such a rigorous schedule. John, who would be a rather expensive cab ride away should anything go wrong.

 

And go wrong, things had. So very wrong. But they didn't talk about that day. Nothing good came from talking about that day (most of the time).

 

"Hey, Scott? It's time to go," Gordon announced from Scott's door.

 

Now he was at it again. He should've been used to it by now, but Scott wasn't so sure he'd been on this side of it before. With Dad, himself, and John, it had been terrifying and yet doable. Even with John, it had felt like he was leaving behind a partner rather than a little brother. But today, man.

 

It took everything Scott had to not fix the collar of Alan's uniform. Surrounded by everyone but John in Dad's office, they all went over it one more time. Did he have everything he needed? Enough clothes? At least two toothbrushes because if he forgot either one, the other was most certainly lost and that would make for a lousy, disgusting rotation. Same for soap, shampoo, the works. Baby wipes for the days when a shower wasn't necessary because of a workout because, really, showers up there just weren't the same. His copy of the _Baked Goods_ picture. Did he have everything he could get into his seventy-two hour bag and still actually stand up straight?

 

But then Alan had pulled Scott aside. They'd learned to talk so much more easily in the last few years, enough so that Scott didn't see hesitation where there once would've been. They maybe weren't equals — some big brother habits couldn't possibly go away when there was such an age gap — but they did what worked for them. It almost stung to see the excitement Scott remembered seeing from Dad, and Gordon, and John. He didn't have to wonder now if it had been there from himself, too.

 

"You know it's gonna be okay, right?" they ended up saying at the same time.

 

Scott laughed.

 

He'd believed it every other time. He probably should now, too. "Yeah, kiddo. You're gonna be great."

 

"It's not like with you or Dad, you know. I can call you every day, right?"

 

"I'll kick your ass if you don't."

 

"And the only enemy I have to worry about is otherwise occupied and buried in a hole somewhere so deep and dark no one's ever gonna find him."

 

Scott pulled Alan into his side and felt that awful moment come along, the one where he realized he was surreptitiously trying to memorize how his brother breathed. He knew that when Alan pulled away, he'd try to memorize his face. So would Alan do the same to him. They'd both be trapped in this twisted rigor somewhere between pain and grin, fake but beautiful because they were both trying so hard.

 

And then Scott remembered, this time, it wasn't about him either. His littlest brother was about to go on his next big adventure, no matter how it turned out. He was about to say so when Alan dug in the pockets of his flight suit with a huge, orange behind the lips grin.

 

"I got you something." Alan slapped it into Scott's palm and bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. "This way it's a little more manly."

 

A rubber Bugs Bunny dangled from a keychain and ring.

 

Alan nodded toward his bag. "You're not getting the other one back."

 

Scott reached out and smacked Alan on the back of his head. "Yeah, kid. We're definitely gonna be okay."

 

_(May 2015)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> A quick content note about Bugs Bunny: If you look closely during the _Give or Take a Million_ episode, you can see some classic cartoon action figures on the shelf of Harman's Store. This is what I have used to let me get by with all the pop culture references I make, along with how music now has a whole new afterlife with recording. I figure if Fred Flintstone, Daffy Duck, and Yogi Bear can still be around in the future, I can sure exploit them for my own emotionally manipulative purposes now.


End file.
